


Assistive Stimulation

by inlovewithnight



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gunplay, Kinky Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a certain need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assistive Stimulation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sansets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansets/gifts).



“Detective Bell,” Sherlock said, in a voice with the particular level of earnest intensity that meant Marcus wasn’t going to like anything that followed. “I require your assistance in a particular use of your sidearm.”

Marcus processed that, asked himself if he’d understood correctly, confirmed that he had, and locked in on a reply in the time it took to exhale. “Go away, Holmes.”

“It’s quite important.”

“I’m not letting you use my gun.”

“Detective.” Sherlock somehow managed to break the word into three precise syllables of deep disappointment. “I certainly don’t want to _use_ it. Dear god, no. They’re abhorrent weapons.”

“Oh, that’s why you need me, huh? To operate the abhorrent weapon while you… do your thing.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock beams at him. “It’s so good that we’ve come to understand each other this way, Detective.”

“Oh, it’s a miracle.” Marcus wondered if this was going to win the running bet with Gregson over the weirdest shit that would come out of Holmes’ mouth in a given week. There was a beer riding on it if it did. “So what exactly does doing your thing consist of this time?”

“I will achieve a state of adrenaline-based stimulation with a corresponding emotional high and subsequent clarity of thought, as well as, if lucky, a sexual arousal and release.”

Marcus blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Surely Watson has explained this to you.” Sherlock waved one hand irritably. “I have certain emotional needs that must be met in order for me to function at top efficacy.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to help you meet those needs with my gun?”

Sherlock gave him a withering look. “By holding it to my head and making threatening statements in a convincing manner, _please_ don’t play the fool right now, Detective, I haven’t got all day.”

Marcus decided to start with the least of the problems he was having with this. “Joan and I have definitely never discussed holding a gun on you, Holmes.”

“I find that exceedingly difficult to believe. Not even in a moment of exasperation and hyperbole?”

“Believe it or not, we have topics of conversation that aren’t _you_.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment through narrowed eyes. “Me, your favorite take-out restaurants, how effectively her leggings show off certain anatomical attributes, and whose turn it is to buy the coffee. Am I missing anything?”

If this was a ploy to make Marcus more tempted to shoot him, he had to give credit for that. “The weather. And great moments in stupid white people.”

“Ah.” That seemed to throw Sherlock for a moment; he stared at Marcus and blinked rapidly. “Well. This is actually rather irrelevant to my point.”

“Which is what, again?”

“That I would like you to hold a gun on me and speak in a threatening manner, and please make it _convincing_ , Detective, I’m finding it very difficult to focus and the adrenaline climax will be exceedingly useful.”

“And there is literally no one else you can ask to do this.”

“Normally I rely on several wonderful young entrepreneurs who advertise their services on Craigslist, but they all very firmly draw a line at including firearms. Which I fully respect.”

“What if _I_ draw a line at including firearms?”

“Then you would have said so at the beginning instead of dragging this out to such an excruciating degree. _Detective Bell_.” Sherlock paused for a breath. “Are we going to find somewhere private or are we _not_?”

Marcus Bell prided himself on being a man with solid self-control. But nobody was built to deal with Sherlock Holmes. “Go wait for me downstairs. We’ll take my car.”

***

The delay was so Marcus could go by the armory and check out an extra sidearm. There were a couple of reasons for that: if they were in the armory, they’d already been checked two or three times to ensure they weren’t loaded, and if he did end up shooting Sherlock in the head, it wouldn’t be with the sidearm _issued in his name_ , which would be just too stupid to even begin to live with.

“I’m going to go to the range and practice with a different model,” he told the clerk in the armory, and that was good enough to get himself issued a gun and a clip.

He found Sherlock waiting at the car, bouncing on his heels like an overexcited puppy. “Don’t talk,” Marcus warned him. “You might make me change my mind if you talk.”

“I’m so glad you’re a reasonable man, Detective Bell.”

“Yeah, this is definitely textbook reasonable.” Marcus shook his head and put the clip in the glove compartment. “Don’t touch that.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to touch any of it. Would remove some of the mystery.”

“You’ve handled a gun before, Sherlock. I know you have.”

“Yes, but not _this_ one. This one is acting in the service of fantasy. It must remain sacrosanct. As holy as any wafer of the church.” Sherlock bounced in his seat now. “Where are we going?”

Marcus stifled a sigh. “I told you not to talk, didn’t I?”

“It’s very difficult for me to be calm right now. That’s part of why I requested your assistance. This procedure will help me regain my focus.”

“Procedure.” Marcus shook his head. “You need psychological help.”

“Irrelevant to the circumstances at hand,” Sherlock said waspishly, but he did fall into silence as Marcus drove them out to a warehouse in a neighborhood that hovered somewhere between bad and okay.

“The department owns it,” he said before Sherlock could start asking questions. “It’s used for SWAT practices, that kind of thing. There aren’t any scheduled today, so you can have your privacy, and I don’t end up with a dead body in my apartment if this goes wrong.”

“It won’t go wrong, Detective. I trust implicitly your ability to tell whether or not a gun is loaded.”

“That’s sweet.” Marcus checked the gun again; no clip, clear chamber. He knew that he would look again once they got inside, and another time before he aimed the thing toward Sherlock. Every bit of training he’d ever had screamed at him that this was wrong, that you could never _really_ be sure about a weapon, that you only pointed a gun toward someone you wanted to kill. Ever.

Being around Sherlock made all the rules bend and everything else turn out really fucking weird.

Once they were inside and Marcus had verified that they were alone, Sherlock dropped to his knees in the middle of the open space at the heart of the warehouse. He put his hands behind his back, each one clasping the opposite wrist, and blinked up at the ceiling. “You may begin.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving permission.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched at the unfortunate rhyme, and Marcus felt annoyance surge up from his chest, heat rushing into his face. He stepped in closer, making a careful circle around Sherlock, tapping the gun against his thigh. “You’re such an arrogant little prick, Holmes.”

Sherlock glanced at him, tracking Marcus’ movements from the corner of his eye. “Duly noted.”

“You’re not half as special as you think you are.” Marcus let the muzzle of the gun brush against the back of Sherlock’s head, ruffling his hair, then tapped it against the curve of his ear and the edge of his eye socket, right at the end of his eyebrow.

“I must admit, this wasn’t the approach I expected you to take.” Sherlock tilted his head back a bit further, watching Marcus openly now. “Not the… character.”

“You expected thug gangsta gonna mess you up, right?” Marcus rolled his eyes and slapped the barrel against Sherlock’s cheek. “Nice, Holmes. Stereotypes all the way down.”

“I do apologize.” Sherlock shut his eyes and Marcus hit him again, distantly enjoying the dull sound of the metal against cheekbone. That was going to leave a mark.

Sherlock sighed, a slow exhale from between clenched teeth, and Marcus rubbed the muzzle against the soft part of his cheek, pushing the flesh down in a hollow until it met teeth.

“This is your way of trying to get me to figure you out, huh? To tell you at the end of the day you’re not special, you’re just like the rest of us? Doesn’t matter how you can see all the patterns, you can still be taken out with a bullet. Just like everybody else. Just human.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked left and right under closed lids, but he didn’t say anything. There was a first. Marcus let the gun graze down along his jaw, then back up to bump his lower lip.

“What if I don’t care enough to want to figure you out, Holmes? What if I just really don’t care?”

That didn’t provoke a reaction either. Marcus tried to picture the inside of Sherlock’s head, seeing it as something like the inside of a computer in a cartoon, all circuits and wires and glowing bits of data racing from place to place. The gun making a divot in his lip probably made the lights go faster.

“You are just a guy,” Marcus said, drawing the gun away and then smacking it against Sherlock’s temple, on the opposite side of where he’d hit him before. This one probably wasn’t hard enough to bruise, but Sherlock moved with the impact, his eyes still closed and his face turning away. “Just a guy and you’re not even that interesting, most of the time. Not to me.”

He waited a moment, wishing Sherlock would give him _something_ back, something other than the fact that he wasn’t being his obnoxious self as a sign that Marcus was doing this right at all. Sherlock’s head tipped back again, his tongue darting over his lower lip, his teeth clicking against each other a bit too hard as he closed his mouth to swallow.

“Going to be a bad day for you when Joan figures it out,” Marcus said. “Leave you all alone with your brains and bad attitude and nobody to give a damn.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he looked up at Marcus with a strange expression—mouth drawn tight at the corners, eyes wounded but without the spark of anger that should be there—but he didn’t say a word.

Marcus didn’t give himself any more time to think. He pressed the muzzle squarely between Sherlock’s eyes and pulled the trigger.

There was a muffled click and Sherlock gave a soft gasp, his whole body jerking and his chin dropping to his chest. Marcus held the gun still for a moment, until his own breath caught up with him, and then stepped back, letting his hand drop to his side.

“That was… quite stimulating,” Sherlock muttered, still staring down at the floor. He rubbed his hands vigorously on his thighs, leaving sweaty streaks, and Marcus noted in a distant way the red marks on his wrists where he’d gripped them behind his back. “Quite nicely done, Detective. If I didn’t know better I would think you had more practice with this.”

“Not even a little bit.” Marcus watched him for a moment, then took another step back, trying to build up some breathing room. “Did you get the sex part taken care of? Wait. Don’t tell me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and cast him a dull glare, letting some of the tension out of the space between them. “Don’t be juvenile, Detective.”

“I’ll be juvenile if I want to. I’ll even be puerile. I just did you a big favor.”

“Listen to you, utilizing your word-of-the-day calendar.” Sherlock rose carefully to his feet and smoothed his hair back with both hands. “Right. I’ll need you to take me to Watson now. She’s waiting for me with some evidence and I imagine that by now she’s quite annoyed.”

“You didn’t _tell_ her you were—” Marcus stopped and shook his head. “What am I saying. Come on. We’ll pick up coffee on the way.”


End file.
